


Like the Sun

by ArgentNoelle



Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assisted Suicide, Bets & Wagers, Canon Compliant, Child Loss, Childhood Trauma, Creepy Dolls, Cross-Species Problems, Cross-cultural, Descent into Madness, Epistolary, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Issues, Family Loss, Gen, Guilt, Interracial By Fantasy Standards, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Kingdom, Mythology References, POV Outsider, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Post-War, Regret, Royalty, Sibling Love, Siblings, Survivor Guilt, Unreliable Narrator, cross-cultural relationship, cross-species, possible murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:16:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9924332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentNoelle/pseuds/ArgentNoelle
Summary: At the end of the war, Loki is born, and lost.





	1. PART ONE

**Author's Note:**

> based on this norsekink prompt:  
> http://norsekink.livejournal.com/12950.html?thread=31553174#t31553174  
> [MAJOR SPOILERS in prompt!]

Exhausted, eyes closed though the surrounding air is nearly as dark as the space beneath them, Farbauti rests, clutching the small child to her chest. _Mine_ , the thought comes to her in a fierce glow, _this tiny life…_ no matter that she had borne two other sons before this, it was no less unbelievable to hold such a newborn creature. She is drifting into exhausted sleep when she feels a soft touch beside her, opens them to find Laufey watching the babe with an inscrutable expression.

“Stunted,” is his only comment. Unconsciously, her fingers tighten around the quiet infant, the blissful peace broken at once with a cold pit that seems to drop out within her, the same fear that had plagued her from the moment she had first wed the Jotun king; that fear that had grown quiet with the healthy birth of their first two sons. She had thought it vanquished forever, but no—it had only been sleeping, and now it had awakened once more, stirred to life by the dull pronouncement.

“No,” she replies quietly, but an edge of hysteria creeps into it that she cannot control. “No, he’s only small; he will grow like the others, he _will_ —” Laufey takes her hand slowly, clasping it between his own cold ones. Stone and ice, a fit marriage. He sits on the edge of the bed, tucking the furs around her. “My wife,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Oh my beloved. I am so sorry.”

She sits up, careful not to jostle the quietly resting infant within her arms. She tucks her chin into her chest and squeezes her eyes shut; and for some time there is no sound but the ice, and her own quiet, sobbing breath.

Then she loosens her hold, placing the child gently in her husband’s arms. She stares out onto the deep blue of the shadows and does not look at them as she speaks. “Take him away.”

Laufey shifts beside her. “We do not have to—”

She shakes her head once. “No. No, you are right. I have made my decision.”

He sighs; a soft breath of wind between a crevasse, and then speaks. “So be it.” He stands up, child ensconsed in his arms, and walks softly out of the room, as soundless as he had come.

She lies back on the bed, but sleep eludes her; in her mind she pictures her child waking to cold wind and ice, emptiness its last sight in the world. She pulls the furs close to her, burying her head beneath them as though to catch the residual warmth of her son.

Unbidden, a voice creeps into her mind. _You didn’t have to let him die_. But it was selfishness that spoke in those coaxing tones. To keep a runt was not forbidden; the choice of death lay entirely within the mother, and ofttimes they did choose to keep their child, when the means were had to support it—but to face naught but a life of weakness, of injuries, malformed limbs, early death—these were the fate of such twisted things.

Her breathing ragged, she clutches at the amulet around her neck, worn smooth with time and the constant passing of fingers. A twisting bolt of lightning, the end is crafted masterfully, but near the top it changes to rough-hewn work, obviously unfinished.

Her fingers slowing, she traces lazy circles across the surface of the unpainted wood, finally grasping it tightly, the dull point digging into her palm.

She remembers Adisa. To a sister younger by almost five hundred years, she had seemed ever-confident, all-knowledgeable; as reliable as the stone. Dark of hair with eyes to match, her favourite places were the trees which whispered her their secrets and gave her their many-colored flesh.

She always had taken after father. Two of a kind, they were; embracing the variance of life on the surface and the ever-fluctuating light of the sun; turning their quicksilver thoughts into forms both delicate and strong; her smile was like light through a gemstone. Yet mother had longed for the cool steady presence of the dark and the rocks about her. To live with father she had taken her leave of the ground, followed him into a place in which she fit as strangely as Farbauti herself; all that she would give up and more gladly, but the tilted eyes upon them and the constant whispers of scandal wore away as water does even the strongest stone, in time.

 _Madness_ , they said, a soft, sussurating undercurrent, a disapproving air that young Farbauti did not yet understand, but knew with the tightening of Adisa’s fists and the flinty look in her eye—the only time she had ever truly been able to see her sister’s other heritage was when she was angry; when her fast-moving heart would slow to the beat of ages; it always brought a strange, deep thrill to her to see it.

It all changed when they moved under the ground. In search of peace, was the reason; Farbauti chocked on a twisted laugh. She opened her eyes and, staring into the hard stone of the palace, feeling it within her, she could almost imagine she was there once more, in the tall house that had been their own. The move was strange, but had brought a gleeful excitement of a child with a new arena to play; more than that, the moment she set foot beneath the ground, she felt her place as surely as if it had called to her and spoken. Yet as Farbauti flourished underground, Adisa, that surface tree, burying roots into nothing but stone, withered, hungering for the light.

Their carefree games slowly ceased, Adisa’s eyes growing slowly emptier as she confined herself more and more to her chambers and her whittling, a place filled with trees, flowers, plants both real and carven. She had always had nightmares that terrified Farbauti, waking with strangled cries babbling about creatures crawling beneath her skin, but now they doubled their pace, creeping into the waking hours so slowly that there was no time for alarm.

“I knew it,” Farbauti murmured to an empty room, the empty space of her newborn already growing cold. “I knew it, I knew it was killing her—”

And yet she had said nothing. Petulant, she had been. Greedy, as children are, she only wished for Adisa to be herself again, so they could once more explore and wander through this new deep, beautiful home.

It was only when they found her one day lying upon the floor of her twining, vined chambers, knife stained with the same blood which flowed from her wrists, that they realized what Farbauti had known all along.

Adisa did not die, but Farbauti still lost a sister.

Pulling the furs off frantically, Farbauti tried to clear the terrible image from her mind, grasping the amulet ever tighter as she stumbled from the bed into the doorway, arching high above her head. _I was going to name him Loptr_ , the thought came, clear, in her mind, with the sudden knowledge that if she had waited to see him smile, it would be like light through a gemstone.

The paths through the palace were dark, but her eyes saw better in such darkness than under the burning light of the sun; still, somehow the ice and stone tripped her as it never had before, hindering her stumbling steps which should have carried her along. Clutching to the edge of a pillar within the walls of the palace, in the quiet hours of sleep, she felt as though everyone had vanished, leaving for some reason no one had told her of, when she had been alone.

This was the path to the building through whose gates she passed every so often when mother and father had died, to visit a sister who had abandoned her. This the lintel of the door; and behind it, she would see that face, that smile; faded and yet still beautiful.

And there she is, gazing out onto her precious trees and sun in that surface house as though she wants to drink it until it overflows from her mouth and spills onto the floor, painting it in light.

* * *

“Farbauti,” she says, head turning, and there, the smile passed from behind the clouded cast of thought, but the hungry, desperate look that Farbauti had seen still echoes in her mind, sinking into her heart with something like guilt and anger. “I missed you.”

“Adisa,” she says, coming in. Part of her wants to confess it all: every worry about money, about their lives, about her anger and the unfairness of it all, wants to rage that this should have been something they faced together, Adisa leading as she always had, brilliant as a sunbeam. But she is older now, and stone, once formed, does not easily change from its shape. So instead she merely sits by her sister and they pass the long time in an ecstacy of waiting. She can feel the cool of the blade beneath her sleeve, and yet cannot bring it out. It was a terrible choice, an impossible hope to think… “I brought you a present,” she says, in a rush, before she can think on the consequences. Consequences have been swimming before her eyes for years, and they have done nothing but press themselves into her bones with an ache that cannot be mended. And there on the table it rests, reflecting in the sunlight—Adisa stares at it, half-wanting, but her hand not yet closed upon it. “I’m not supposed to have these,” she says, in a joking tone yet with real warning underneath; she glances at the younger asking silent permission that should have been her own to give.

“I trust you,” Farbauti says, knowing it is the wrong thing, knowing Adisa knows it too; the levity of the moment fades into an awkward silence and her eyes grow sad, but she takes the knife in hand and her plain wooden goblet in another, passing one across the other as though feeling for the life within.

Carefully, she makes the first stroke.

And for a moment, Farbauti is a child again, eager and exited, leaning forward, speaking breathlessly, “what is it going to be?”

Adisa smiles enigmatically, eyes fixed upon her work. “You’ll see, little sister. Be patient.”

* * *

The funeral is held aboveground; not only because it is custom but because Farbauti knows Adisa could not bear to rest anywhere else. The sky has opened, pouring rain turning the soft ground to mud, pounding in time to the incriminations in her own head: _my fault_. In her hands she holds the unfinished figurine. A present meant for her, a lightning bolt forever frozen in motion, and the sky echoes the amulet within her palm, lighting up the twilight with her namesake.

* * *

The palace is indeed emptied; frantic voices echo within its walls; the last line has been breached, the last battle lost and taken to their very gates. Tall forms stride with giant paces; she feels small and lost within them, making her way against the tide toward the temple. At first unnoticed, but she is the Queen, and soon her retainers have gathered round.

“Quickly,” they say, “come with us. The only means of escape are now the underground pathways.”

“My son,” she hisses, shaking herself from their grip and running to the source of that terrible din, the battle that rages at the gates.

“They are safe, they are waiting for you in the passage. Come, my queen, quickly!”

“No, Loptr is there—he is dying!” She makes a wild dash between the concerned group and with her smaller stature manages to slip beneath, but with a long stride and a viselike grip they take hold of her once more. She is raging, screaming, but the sounds of the battle have grown and drown out her own cries as she is pulled into the earth.


	2. PART TWO

Laufey carries the small infant in his arms with a distant tenderness, quieting it softly when it starts to shift and complain. “Shh, little one. Rest now.” His steps bring him slowly to the temple, the light of the casket casting queer shadows upon the walls and floor. Stopping before it, he reaches out, taking the small clenched fist of the child with him, touching their joined hands to the vessel of the energy that spreads into the ground, sending with it the life of the joined forms that live in tune with its own brightness. The baby quiets, eyes growing wide, and he smiles, imagining for a moment it living past infancy, standing beside him with that same look of wonder at some new discovery. But he pushes the fantasy from his mind and lays the babe gently before the casket. “May the Tree take you, may you endure no suffering or hardship,” he says quietly, and takes note of the battling before the gates. He closes his eyes for a moment, a grimace twisting his features. “I am sorry, little one, but I must leave you now.” He steps from the temple as the baby begins to wail, making his way to the enemy without the gates.

The fight is brutal and swift; the Aesir have their victory but not yet the satisfaction of an enemy’s defeat, and the two kings face each other silently in a battle apart and above from those of the people clashing in the palace that once was great. Odin spares his life—cruel, canny man that he is, Laufey could not hope for the death another man would have freely given. But he is wounded and weak; lying on the ground within the ruins of his kingdom, of his home; his anger departs with the conquering force and leaves only empty silence. He drags himself to the temple to drive in the sight of what he already knows; feeling the emptiness before he hears it, the plinth only silent stone. He falls to his knees, resting his head against it in prostration; and the thought enters his head with a quiet heaviness. _I’ve failed_. _We are lost, we are defeated_.

Eventually the numbness lifts enough that he begins to think once more—he casts his mind to the little one, left to die alone, and at this hour it seems unbearable cruelty not to stay with it until the end. But it is gone from where he placed it within the temple’s confines; gone, and the lack of piercing cries warms him to the bone. He staggers to his feet, leaning against the plinth for support, casting his eyes about the room, but there is nothing within. He speaks distractedly. “Gone? What kind of thief would take the meal whole without leaving a trace?” And yet even as he speaks he knows the answer. _The same thief who took your Casket._

* * *

The reuniting, months later, with his wife and children is as painful as it is joyous, covered over with the cloud of defeat and loss. Farbauti steps up to him, without that sureness that he had once thought was as deep-seated as the ice—yet even ice could be broken. “Loptr, where is Loptr?” are her first, desperate words to him as they cling to each other like drowning ones, and he meets her eyes with bafflement. “Who?”

“My son,” she says.

_Gone_ , Laufey answers within his mind. _Taken by the conquerer; for what purpose I know not. I only hope a swift death for him and not a slow one_. But aloud, he says, “Dead, Farbauti. You know this.” At his words she grips him tighter, a sound rising from her throat which is almost a sob. Behind her, Byleistr and Helblindi stand motionless and uncertain; with eyes too knowing for their young age.

“Dead, dead,” she says, stepping back with nervous energy and casting her hands over her face. “And it is my fault.”

“He would have died regardless,” Laufey says, to comfort her. “It was a mercy.” Farbauti laughs. It is sudden; with no hint of true mirth in its sideways tone; something flickers in her eyes. “My husband, I am afraid I must take my leave for a moment—”

“Of course.” He reaches down. “Helblindi, Byleistr. Come on; what, are you afraid?” somehow he manages an exaggeratedly affronted look which draws out their shy smiles and brings them tumbling into his arms. Holding them tightly, he remembers when he had not thought to ever see his family again.

This, at least, has not been taken from him.

And yet it becomes increasingly clear that something has cracked that cannot be mended. Farbauti hosts dinner regally, yet Laufey notices the bundle of cloth tied into a crude doll that is never far from her hands. Every one grieves in their own way.

But the months pass, and instead of passing the doll gains first a body, and then multitudes of clothes, every iteration more lifelike than the last; it dawns on him slowly that the thing is growing in time with the ghost of a boy forever lost. Only once does he broach the subject of destroying the doll to his wife; the look she gives him is of betrayal that cuts deeper than any word said in the frost of their arguments which had been wont to scare half the castle with their fury. “Would you kill Loptr once more, then?” she asks him with a voice as far from him as the ice is to the wind. “When he has not even a body but that I make for him?” It is then he realizes that the doll is no replacement in her mind, but the child they have lost.

He feels her falling from him, the ice which had seemed sturdy melted by a sudden warmth and treacherous underfoot. So it is that she slips into her own mind: easily, like falling, and slowly, as the turn of a season from growing to hibernation.


	3. PART THREE

_My Dear Cousin, Loptr has grown much since I have written to you last. He very much enjoys reading dark novels, though I do tell him it is healthy to get the air every now and again. It is not that he shuns the company of others, but that they shun him. Having the body of a doll is hard for him; I have ordered my other children not to speak of him as a thing, inanimate and unfeeling, but they ignore him much of the time when I am not there to oversee their actions. I am afraid he is lonely, Brokkr. I do not know what to do. Laufey is no help—he has grown distant, these past years. It is strange—once we were to each other as two halves that have once met never to be parted, friends in all things even as our love grew with our kingdom—but ah, we have no kingdom any more, only fragments of splintered, beaten men that give us loyalty only through desperation; much of the outlying clans have abandoned us entirely._

_I do not mean to give you only bad tidings. Loptr and I were talking only yesterday of the intricacies of the forge; he has never seen fire, you know. It is these people of the ice, they treat it as though it is such a deadly enemy it is almost amusing. I have never minded cold, Brokkr, but I miss the sight of fire._

_Oh—I have almost forgotten to thank you for the paintings you sent me to my request. Prince Loki is indeed beautiful, he looks almost like my own Loptr would, I believe, if he had a face—yet I am not sure, as I have not seen his smile. That is the most important thing; he must have the correct smile. Brokkr, you have served me well all these years, both as a confidant and as a link to the world outside—these days it is hard getting any of my orders obeyed; I swear no one does anything but the simplest things on my command anymore, they are always looking to my husband. You told me once to think deeply before I married outside of my own race: but what is that to me? I am already split between races. Yet now I begin to wonder if you had not been right with all your dire warnings. I do not feel as though I am happy. Sometimes I wonder if I have ever been happy._

_I have a small favor to ask of you; nothing too strenuous for a man of your great cleverness—yes, that is flattery, you fool, and do not protest—a very small matter, and yet important to Loptr and myself. You see, we have been wondering if this isolation which he feels is not due to the lack of a face from which to speak and put others at ease—a painted one is just not the same; it does not have the ability to move, which is of the utmost importance. It is because of this which I have written to you. Of course, you will be paid handsomely in compensation. Here, I will spell out the venture: the As Prince Loki is said to be of exceeding cleverness, but with an unruly tongue and a mind which casts its ambitions above its abilities; he is also a gambling man. Well; we will take this for the boon it is. Make you, perhaps, some trifling thing, fair to look upon, which you will then contrive to sell to Loki by terms of a bet which you will arrange for him to lose. Do make it that the price will be his head in gold._

_Now comes the entirely clever part. Loptr thought it up himself, and he had the most wicked glint in his eye—I swear, that boy will come to a bad end someday—once bet has been lost, take his words at their literal meaning and claim from him his head—in this way you will be above claims of murder; be sure to have witnesses present. If you bring me his head I will be forever indebted to you, and Loptr will indeed be eternally grateful. Perhaps when next you visit you will be able to meet him at last face to true face. I understand, of course, if you do not wish to carry out such a burdensome task—in that case, I will find my means elsewhere; but rest assured I will have the young Prince’s head for my child._

_Your loving cousin,_  
_Farbauti_  
_(and no, for the last time, tell your brothers they do not have permission to read our correspondence.)_

Brokkr stared at the paper in his hand. Somehow it seemed as though it should burn with hot coals, with what was contained within; and yet somehow, it was as steady and cool as stone untouched by sunlight. He smoothed it down abstractedly. Farbauti’s eccentricities—her madness—had never stopped him from giving his cousin what she desired, but this was a step he could not believe she had crossed. To plan murder—and for such a grotesque cause— cold fingers traveled down his spine, and he shuddered. He stood up from his table by the fire and began to pace, sliding his fingers along the edges of each chair and table he passed. He knew well Farbauti’s stubbornness, and his mind turned to what lengths she might go if denied in this. And yet what could he do? She was a Queen; he, though quite rich and influential, renowned as a master craftsman, was not; any word spoken against her carried not only the weight of family but of world. No—he must solve this another way.

Crossing once more to the table, he looked on it again, reading the letter over and over, sick but determined, until he had conceived of a workable plan. It would need the unwitting help of others—his brothers would lend their hand, of course, but they needed a rival… Brokkr grinned. Yes, he thought, this could perhaps turn out to be an amusing business all around.

* * *

The prince Loki was as haughty as they said; pale and dark-haired, with a face so flawless and cold that Brokkr could understand the Queen’s obsession. He conducted all their dealings with an air of superciliousness, the arrogance of youth combined with that of a spoiled prince. But it was true, entirely true, that he was clever; the bet was not such a sure thing as Brokkr had counted on; in the end though, the gathered crowd voted as they should, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. Loki shrugged at the outcome, reaching behind him for the waiting pile of gold, when Brokkr stopped his hand. “I think it is time you made your payment.”

Drawing up to his full height, Loki glared down at him with silent fury. When he spoke his voice was clipped. “And so you see the gold beside me. The weight of my head, as promised.” He bowed mockingly, and Brokkr felt any sympathy for the man’s coming punishment dry up. He inspected the bag for more than a few minutes, winding the prince up into an agony of impatience before speaking, turning out its contents and looking it over as if he thought he might have been cheated, watching the boy’s face grow redder with every action. Finally, he set the bag down, and became serious once more. “It is indeed the weight of your head in gold. But as I recall, your exact wording was that you bet your head.” Nodding towards his brother, who came up promptly with the scroll bearing the record of the bet, he opened it to point at the small black letters.

Loki stared at the parchment, speechless. “That is the accepted phrase for such transactions—it is not meant to be taken literally!”

“And yet these are the words, as written, to witnesses,” Brokkr returned, unmoved. “It is entirely within my rights to take such a contract at face value; so, I will claim my price. Your head.” The gasps of shock in the surrounding crowd were not entirely feigned—though they had been briefed about the plan, all under the pretense of “knocking the prince down a peg or two” and a bit of good fun, it was still amazing to hear anyone claim the prince’s life so brazenly. Brokkr himself could hardly believe he had spoken with such unwavering confidence. Now was the time for Loki to live up to his name and show a little of that vaunted cleverness.

Sure enough, trapped by his own signature, eyes darting about, Loki’s mind was working quickly. Suddenly he straightened up, and an easy grin slid onto his face; it made him look almost menacing, and Brokkr thought at once that the Queen would not have been happy with his head even if she had got it. “Literal you make my words; then allow me to counter. I said you could have my head; I never said you were entitled to my neck.”

Brokkr inclined his head. “That is indeed true.” He paused, speaking now to the crowd. “Is there no way I could cut off the head without touching the neck? Hmm?” He looked round at the crowd, who screamed out their various and conflicting opinions.

“Hardly,” Loki said. “Now, either take the gold, or forfeit the prize.”

Brokkr smiled. “By your own admission, and the agreement of all present, I can do whatever I like to your head as long as I do not touch your neck.”

Again showing slight signs of nervousness, Loki swallowed, but his voice was even. “Entirely true—but you cannot kill me.”

“Unfortunately not,” Brokkr answered mildly, and got a chorus of laughs in return. “Barring that, I’ll just have to seal that clever mouth of yours.”

“What—?” Loki began, but when he saw the awl and the thread, then comprehension dawned. Brokkr’s brothers came up on either side of Loki and gripped him tightly by the arm. Loki glared at them then spoke to Brokkr coldly. “I won’t run.”

“I know you won’t,” Brokkr answered. “It’s for when you start thrashing.” At that, the blood drained from the prince’s face. He nodded once. “Very well,” he said, accepting it with as much dignity as he could muster. “Get on with it, then.”

He screamed, of course, and thrashed; no amount of royal blood could make a body immune to pain and fear. But when it was all over he took only a few minutes to pull himself together; then, with blood still streaming from his sewn mouth, he gathered up the gifts Brokkr had made in his arms, gave a composed nod in his direction, and walked almost steadily from the yard.

There was a long, horrified silence, before the tension was broken with a slap on the back. “Can you believe it?” Eitri joked. “We laid hands on the prince of Asgard and we’re still alive!”

Brokkr chuckled darkly. “For now, at least.” He shook his head. “Once the word gets out, who knows. Come on—I need a drink.”


	4. PART FOUR

Thor’s coronation was _supposed_ to have been his day of triumph. Instead, he was fighting his way through Jotunheim, still a prince, with his band of friends and—well, Loki was probably around somewhere. He hardly heard their cries as he made his way deeper into the ruined palaces, only noticing as the wave of bodies thinned until he was walking quite alone through entirely silent halls. Something about the place made him feel uneasy, but he told himself he did not feel a thing. He wandered, trying to find his way back out, but only getting—he could admit at least to himself—more and more hopelessly lost. And then he heard a sound, very faint, as though someone were speaking.

Clutching Mjolnir tightly to hand, he crept forward toward the source of the noise, which seemed to be coming from around the next corner. When he turned it, weapon at the ready, the one thing he had not expected to see was… this.

Sitting at a table, a woman—no Jotun woman, she might have been an elf or a dwarf—was having tea, chattering quietly to her companion sitting across the table. It was the companion which froze Thor in his tracks. Dressed in the finest clothing, it seemed to be a life-sized doll, draped over a chair with one hand touching the cup in a parody of life, as though having just set it down. Startled, the woman looked towards him and regarded him for a moment.

“You’re prince Thor, aren’t you,” she said at last. “If only your brother didn’t have those scars he could have been useful.”

Stepping into the room in sudden anger, Thor brandished his weapon. “Do not speak of Loki in that manner,” he growled, but the woman was already entirely concerned with her imaginary conversation. He stood awkwardly for a moment outside the scene, and then the woman turned to him again. “Yes, why don’t you sit down? Here,” she said, standing up and pulling out a chair, “I do insist.”

“My lady, I really must…”

“Oh, do stay for a bit. My son would like to meet you very much.” She looked warmly at the doll, a glance which Thor mirrored cautiously. He sank down onto the very edge of the chair, hand still gripping tightly to his hammer. The woman was obviously mad; but she seemed harmless enough—was she a prisoner in this house?

Hardly paying attention to her chatter at first, he eventually found himself taking notice of it—she was surprisingly witty and with a sharp sense of humor. Forgetting himself for a moment, he laughed.

* * *

Farbauti had been watching Thor closely throughout tea. Loptr was interested in him, so there must be something more to the brute than met the eye. True, he was surprisingly courteous, but that was hardly worthy of note—she found herself enjoying the company; these days she hardly ever had to entertain anyone who wasn’t Loptr—and, eventually, she eased enough to even begin bantering with him.

Then he laughed, and her heart stopped. That smile—like the sun through a gemstone.

She had had the wrong prince all the time.

Beside her, she could feel Loptr straighten in interest, and she slowly dropped her hand to the knife by her empty plate, the other coming up to touch the amulet around her neck.

Something in her manner must have alerted him to the change in tone, for he paused for a moment and gave her a concerned glance. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Entirely fine,” she answered—and for the first time she could remember, she was.


End file.
